Sunday
It
was
Sunday.
We went for a picnic, and
It smelt like a yellow green, and
There were church bells.
Very cliché. I cried, and
You questioned their motivation.
You had learned that in Advanced
Acting.
It was an expensive class,
And you had played Nora Helmer.
Says I: “I don’t
know why,
But I have this feeling
That we’ve exited a covenant.”
You nodded, mild, with sleepy lids.
Your face was mild too –
A bolt of blue-milk cloth
With your eyes too far apart,
And your dishwater hair.
We sat and ate sandwiches of
Expensive swiss and turkey:
Your mouth tasted like a new glue
smell
And I think it was our first Easter.
Unwed again, I pondered
Our windy
isolation.
I was a Christian who did not
splurge
On waterproof mascara, or acting
classes.
Though I had
since forgotten how to talk
To people who are not you,
I could better paste my face
together
And hear the grass.
Your palm as cool as a melon, you
grasped my hand.
I covered my ears –
The grass was crying, too.
